Soft footsteps on the carpet.Not the heavy, cleat-stomping walk of an athlete, but the quiet, deliberate tread of someone trying not to disturb the peace.
I looked up.
Luke rounded the corner of the stack.He wasn’t wearing team gear—no logo, no Frost Demons branding.Jeans and a dark-green sweater that made his eyes look unfair.
He saw me.The “media smile”—the polite, guarded one he gave reporters—didn’t appear.Instead, his face softened into something private.Something for me.
He didn’t walk to the empty chair across from me.He walked to the one right next to me.
He pulled it out, wincing as the wood scraped the floor, and sat.
“Hey,” he mouthed, no sound.
“Hey,” I mouthed back.
He smelled like the cold outside and the peppermint soap from our shower.He unpacked his bag with slow, deliberate movements—playbook, notebook, a black pen.
He shifted.
His leg pressed against mine.Not a brush.A lean.Solid, heavy warmth running from hip to knee.
I froze, instinct screamingpeople will see.I glanced at the aisle.Empty.
Luke didn’t look at me.He opened his playbook to a diagram of a penalty kill, clicked his pen, and began making notes.His hand drifted down and settled on my thigh.
His thumb rubbed a slow, calming circle against the denim.
My brain short-circuited.The thesis draft might as well have been written in Wingdings.
I looked at him.He was staring at the playbook, expression perfectly serious, while his hand claimed me in the middle of a public building.
He slid his notebook toward me.
Focus, Professor,he had written in the margin.
I grabbed my pen.You are violating my personal space.
He read it, smirked, and wrote back:Yeah, but you like it.
I fought a smile.I turned back to my screen, but I didn’t type.I was too busy feeling the heat of his palm.Terrifying.Exhilarating.
We worked like that for twenty minutes—a silent, secret circuit connected by the touch of his hand.It felt like getting away with a heist.
Then, footsteps.Fast ones.
“Austen?”
The whisper was loud, cutting through the silence.
I jumped.My heart hammered against my ribs.
Luke didn’t jump.His hand vanished from my leg instantly—smooth, controlled, no guilt-jerk—and reappeared on his own neck, rubbing a knot as he turned his head.
Kayla, Devon’s girlfriend, stood at the end of the aisle.She was holding a stack of psych textbooks.
“Oh, hey,” she whispered, stepping closer.“Devon said you guys might be here.Is Luke—oh, hi Luke!”
I couldn’t speak.My throat was locked.I was convinced there was a neon sign above my head flashingWE ARE SLEEPING TOGETHER.
